


Rum on the Fire

by yolkipalki



Series: Dandelion Wine [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blindness, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/F, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt, Hypothermia, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion & Triss Merigold Friendship, M/M, Memory Loss, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Regret, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkipalki/pseuds/yolkipalki
Summary: Geralt was very skilled at a great many things, running away from the fires he had started was one such thing. He would look at the roaring flames that ravaged the bonds that tied him to another, and with fear pricking, at the back of his neck and elbows, he would simply turn around and walk away. He had learned from painful experience that the heat of the fire can only sting your skin if you turn to face it. When bridges burn and tunnels collapse, as inevitably, they do... one should simply take care to avoid the path in the future, lest they be made to trudge through the ash and debris or dig out a pathway from the rubble.Simple enough.Or... Geralt chases after Yennefer and finds more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Dandelion Wine [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015449
Comments: 17
Kudos: 134





	Rum on the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I don’t know about you, but I for one had not expected it to go in this direction. I’ve resisted it at every turn and I finally decided to just write it. It has sort of taken on a life of its own at this point, as I find is often the case with painting. Hopefully, it wasn't the wrong decision.
> 
> CW: There is a depiction of violence and rape through the form of a panic-induced flashback.

RUM ON THE FIRE

* * *

by Lemon (honey lemon trashcat)

* * *

As Geralt slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and took another step he thought about the journey that had brought him there. The long days and nights riding north had been exhausting. He patted Roach gently, whispering apologies to her. They were less than a day’s ride from Triss but he feared that if he pushed Roach any harder he might kill her. 

He had so many questions, so many things he just simply did not understand. Triss had been less than forthcoming, enlisting the witcher’s help in procuring a list of oddities for some clandestine purpose and claiming that it would somehow help them retrieve necessary intelligence or some other political nonsense. He had reluctantly agreed and nearly two months later he received word that Yennefer had been located in the clutches of Nilfgaard and was now in the care of a small temple in Redania.

Yennefer would most likely be upset with him for coming. She had, after all, made it very clear that she never wanted to see him again. But at this point, he didn’t care. If she never wanted to see him again that was fine with him, at least she’d be alive to scorn him. All he could do was hope that by the time he got there she was still... He had no reason to doubt Triss or the priestesses of the temple but the lingering sour in the pit of his stomach cared not for rationalities. 

Just another day and he would be there. He would see her with his own eyes and he would know that she was safe...or that she was-

He refused to finish the thought, busying himself with setting up camp and tending his weapons and armor. Years of practice had made these tasks little more than muscle memory, a meditative task, and he was done much sooner than he would’ve liked. Sitting there, bubbling and simmering in his palpable tension was driving him mad. With an irritated huff, he dumped out his potions bag and began to rifle through it. 

The bag contained potions, herbs and poultices, a loose coin or two, dried out leaves and twigs, and small pieces of dried meat. Some herbs had been crushed or dried beyond usefulness.

As he took note of the prepared potions and raw ingredients he had, he wondered how long it had been since he had cleaned out this bag. He wasn’t sure he had ever sat down and sorted through it, the last person to clean out his bags and bring any sort of order to his collection of oddities had been Jask- 

Some of the bottles and bundles and sprigs still held amongst them small pieces of torn parchment with his scribbled handwriting on them, reminders of what herbs did what if he needed to brew something for Geralt…

Amongst the familiar items, shoved into the bottom of the worn leather bag there was a bottle of blown glass in the shape of a sphere. It was larger than his potions by far and fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. The glass was a beautiful scarlet, the liquid inside the color of raw honey. A seal of black wax covered the cork and dripped down the small neck of the bottle and a piece of parchment was rolled tightly and tied together with blue twine wrapped around it, a charm dangled from the thread. Gingerly Geralt lifted it and inspected the tiny charm in the firelight. It looked like some sort of colored glass or citrine, no larger than a lizard's eye. Carefully he undid the ornate little bow that the twine had been tied into and pulled the parchment from the bottle, mindful not to drop the charm into the dirt.

Uncorking the bottle he smelled it, there was an almost spice to it. It was rum from Cidaris, more expensive a spirit than Geralt had ever purchased, being thoroughly unwilling to part with the coin for something that would get him drunk no faster than pisswater ale would. He set the cork down and shifted the bottle to his other hand while he unrolled the small parchment. 

He recognized the handwriting immediately and felt the sinking in his gut threaten to curl his chest to his knees as it flipped his stomach on its side.

**_Dearest Geralt,_ **

**_My wolf, I cherish every memory we made, for I know there will be no more. I deserved a better goodbye._ **

**_Forever and yet never truly yours,_ **

**_Jaskier_ **

His throat tightened and he thought he might be sick. 

Geralt was very skilled at a great many things, running away from the fires he had started was one such thing. He would look at the roaring flames that ravaged the bonds that tied him to another, and with fear pricking, at the back of his neck and elbows, he would simply turn around and walk away. He had learned from painful experience that the heat of the fire can only sting your skin if you turn to face it. When bridges burn and tunnels collapse, as inevitably, they do... one should simply take care to avoid the path in the future, lest they be made to trudge through the ash and debris or dig out a pathway from the rubble. 

_ Simple enough.  _

Geralt refused to entertain the splintered thoughts and raw emotions that wedged themselves deeper into his consciousness and threatened to break the surface. He tightened his grip around the bottle and in a rather pathetic attempt to regain control he lost what little he had. As hard as he could, he cast the rum into the fire shattering the bottle. He watched the flames licked the sky, like splaying fingers clawing desperately at the stars. That was where he stayed thumbing the small bead of citrine and watching the flames intently until finally, the fire burned itself out. 

* * *

“Geralt...I-”

Jaskier’s body seized one final time and his stiff hand lost what little tension was left in his sinews. She let it perch there in her palm like a bird. Something small slipped from his once-clenched fist and rang out like a chime as it bounced off of the floor.

She picked it up, it was a thin chain, no thicker than horsehair, on the end the smallest of beads the color of raw honey. She curled it gently into her fist and pulled him closer. That was where she existed for a while, not thinking of the past or the horrors it had wrought or of the future and the agony it promised to bring, but simply being. 

She had never paid much mind to his songs, though she had to admit some of them were rather catchy. She tried her hardest to recall them now and under her breath, she croaked the words she could remember and hummed clumsily through the rest. 

Carefully her shaking hands pulled the bloody matted hair from his face. It was almost funny. When he was around she had wanted nothing more than for someone to silence him, she had fantasized about doing it herself more than once. Yet now there was only silence; it was suffocating. 

She would’ve traded anything for his stupid voice. She laughed bitterly as the tears cut veins in the dirt and blood across her face. Life was nothing short of cruel and senseless. People suffered in utter confusion and chaos and eventually stumbled to their death whether it be peaceful or agonizing, willing...or unwilling.

At one time she had  _ hated  _ him. She still hated him...didn’t she? 

_ Why _ ? 

Yennefer couldn’t seem to remember, their rivalry seemed so petty and childish now. 

She couldn’t believe how blind she had been. Over the many long years of roaming the continent, she had honed the ability to read a person like an open book with nary a thought. How had she not understood, not seen it a thousand times over? The way he looked at Geralt, stumbling after him and hanging on his every word.

Like threads of silver, running across her skin she could feel it, the electric spark of chaos in the air. Something was happening. She clung to Jaskier, cradling his head and wrapping her arm around him as the very ground beneath them shook. The last thing she remembered was the very fabric of space ripping before her eyes. 

Someone had opened a portal. 

* * *

“No, I don’t think you  _ do  _ understand.” The voice rang from through the halls as Geralt turned the corner to the courtyard of the temple. Geralt recognized it, after all, he had been on the receiving end of that very wrath more than once, it was Triss Merigold. “There has to be something else that can be done! I will not just sit back and let it all be for nothing!”

The louder and more agitated the fiery mage became the softer and slower the high priestess spoke. Geralt almost snorted, thinking of how the high priestess Nenneke would have responded to such insolence in her courtyard, but he was far from Melitele’s temple now. He wasn’t even sure who this temple was dedicated to, looking around him he saw no clear indication of god or goddess through motif. It was a rather simple courtyard, ivy crawling up the walls stretching out towards the light of the setting sun that bathed the courtyard in brilliant orange and purple glows. Triss cursed and tossed something in her hand on the ground, mumbling under her breath and storming right past Geralt down the hall. 

“Let her be, dear. She’ll return when she’s ready.” The priestess said softly as she bent down to pick up what the mage had discarded in anger. She looked up at him with warmth and smiled. “She has been through quite a lot. She needs a moment to let go.”

“Le-” Geralt opened his mouth to question but the abbess hobbled past him, rolling her sleeves carefully and placing her hands in a basin of trickling water.

“Sometimes, dear witcher, we give everything we have in a hope that it will bear fruit. We plow the field and till the earth, plant the seed, prune the tree but we cannot anticipate every eventuality nor can we control the birds that peck at unripened fruit or lightning that strikes from the heavens... and even if we could,” she turned to face him. Closing her eyes she drew a line across each cheekbone with her thumb and gently pressing the pad of her index finger to her forehead and her chin, letting the water drip down her face and holding her palms outstretched for a moment, “The price that control demands is far too high. We can only do what we can and surrender up the illusion of control.” Dipping her hands in the water once more she held them out to Geralt. He leaned forward reluctantly as she ran her fingers across his cheekbones, following the patterns she had drawn on her face. The water was cool and her fingertips gentle. 

“Blessings unto you and yours, witcher. May your sufferings be few.” It was a simple gesture, one made a thousand different ways with a thousand different names, just a simple blessing, a greeting. But he thought he might cry, he cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. 

He nodded. “And to you as well, high priestess.” She smiled sweetly at him and turned to walk down the hall, expecting him to follow. “When Triss told me that you’d come I was not sure I believed her.” She laughed. “I have not seen a witcher in all my long days, but truth be told I have not strayed from my small corner of this vast Continent.” She stopped outside a closed door, made of simple, unfinished wood. “The mage Yennefer is in here, you may look inside to ease your mind, sir witcher. But we cannot linger, she needs rest. She might not wake for quite some time.” 

“How long has she been here?” 

“Nearly two moons, any attempts to wake her have thrown her into a state of deep hysteria. But to be completely truthful, our resources are stretched quite thin with our demands at this time.”

Geralt felt a sharp pull in his chest as he peered in through the crack of the door and saw her, sleeping peacefully in a bed. Just then a young priestess stumbled down the hall, her robes gathered in her arms as she ran as if being chased by wolves.

“Fuck.” She hissed as she nearly tripped over her own feet and stumbled into the wall, narrowly avoiding the Geralt. He tried not to smirk at the sight of the young rosy-cheeked priestess cursing like a sailor in the sanctuary.

"Mother," The girl gasped breathlessly as she straightened her robes. She nodded at Geralt in the slightest of curtsies. "Mother please hurry, he’s awake." 

The high priestess was hobbling down the hallway, barking orders before he could open his mouth to question it.

* * *

As Geralt approached the room at the end of the hall he could hear shouting and thrashing. The ringing chime of shattering glass punctured the wailing and a cacophony of frantic voices called out over each other in a panic shouting orders and calling for help. 

It was truly none of his business, he should simply walk away and wait for the abbess to point him in the direction of his room. And he told himself that that was just what he was going to do as he stepped closer to the cracked door where he found Triss.

Triss exhaled sharply, leaning against the closed door and pursing her lips. “Evening, Geralt.” She said as casually as she could muster, but he wasn’t fooled and she knew that. She pulled her gaze from the room and spun on her heel. Her head tilted back, eyes trained on the ceiling, and arms hugging her chest.

“Triss.” 

“My informant.” She cocked her head as if to gesture through the door. “Miraculously he lived, but...to be perfectly honest I’m not sure any of that matters. His body may never recover...if it does it won’t be the same. Even worse still, his mind has completely unraveled. He is  _ somewhat  _ lucid from time to time but it always devolves into nonsense and as far as I can tell he remembers very little if anything.”

“Courtesy of Nilfgaard.” He stated.

“Unfortunately yes. We don’t know if he was able to obtain the information we required, or if he broke under their administrations, but we know he found his way to Yennefer. His heart had stopped when we finally reached them, the frost claimed nearly all of the flesh of his feet and all but three fingers. His right arm...we did what we could but the flesh was so badly damaged…” She tucked her hair behind her ear and shifted uncomfortably. “His vision comes and goes and he... doesn’t recognize my voice or name, that’s to say nothing of the confusion at the sight of my face.” She shifted again, unfolding her arms that hugged her chest and weaving her fingers through her hair on the back of her head.

“Sounds like he was more than an informant.” Geralt stated flatly lifting an eyebrow. 

She shot daggers at him with her bright eyes. “Sod off Geralt, we were close but we weren’t…” She hesitated. “He worked with me for many years. In all my years at court, I have never known a man better at rooting out and hawking secrets.” She forced a small laugh, but it was strangled in her tightening throat. “So, yes Geralt. He was more than an informant, he was a dear friend and I have no way of knowing if he is still in there somewhere, struggling to get out. Sometimes he...he seems so close to the surface that I can almost see him in those eyes.”

The silence hummed as the priestesses finished redressing his wounds. 

“I shouldn’t have let him go.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Triss. If he was as good as you say, then he understood the risks.”

“That doesn’t matter Geralt. Don’t you understand? Whatever information he had is gone, shattered when they smashed his skull like a robin’s egg! She was yelling now, her voice wavering, the door clicked open and two young priestesses carrying armfuls of medical supplies bowed their heads and muttered apologies as they quickly slipped between Triss and Geralt and into the hall, scattering like mice. “It was all for nothing. None of it-” She choked angrily, her face twisting in indignation like a child who had skinned their knee. He could see her fight the urge to reach for the door and close it, instead, she turned slowly and pushed it open. “None of it mattered. He...gave up everything and it didn’t mean a fucking thing.”

“Surely there’s some way to retrieve whatever information might be intact. Don’t tell me the great Triss Merigold doesn’t have her ways.” He smirked ever-so-slightly at her, attempting to...well he wasn’t quite sure. He was not equipped to have this conversation and yet here he was.

“Once he stabilizes we can try a more...invasive technique but-”

“I’ve never known a mage to give much pause at being invasive.” Geralt snorted.

She pretended as though she hadn’t heard him but he could feel the heat of angry rise up to flush her cheeks scarlet. 

“It’s risky Geralt. If we do this, there’s a chance that the information isn’t even there. His mind could snap and he’s been through so much…”

“Well, I suppose you have to ask yourself what matters more to you.”

She said nothing, unfolding her arms and walking into the room and to the bed. Geralt hung for a moment awkwardly at the door. How was it that he always found himself in these situations? 

Triss wanted something from him, needed him to say or do something and he just simply couldn’t. He wasn’t about to ask her, that would be a rather large misstep even though they both knew that he didn’t know what was required of him. 

“Fuck.” He hissed almost inaudibly as he pinched the bridge of his nose and reluctantly walked into the room. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing but somewhere in his mind, he thought if he could reach out and touch her shoulder, in some sort of reassuring gesture that it would sate the odd tang of guilt he felt curling the back of his tongue into his throat. So he did. 

“Evenin’ bird,” Triss whispered tenderly to the man in the bed, and Geralt watched from just inside the doorway as the man struggled to turn towards the sound of her voice.

Quietly and gracefully he steeled himself and crossed the room, his senses assaulted by the fragrance of herbs and fresh linen smothered the stench of blood and the spice and salt of fever.

Triss was crumbling at the sight of him an odd mix of grief and searing rage. Geralt was suddenly unsure about his approach. He cleared his throat awkwardly mere steps from the foot of the bed. 

The man in the bed flinched, and Geralt could hear his heart begin to flutter in his chest. Triss watched his eyes roaming wildly as he tried to rapidly blink away the blindness. Cautiously, she set a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey...it’s okay. Jules...this is Geralt, he’s an old… a  _ friend _ of mine.”

_ Friend, huh?  _ Quietly he wondered how many times two people needed to fuck casually before they were considered more than old friends.

Triss gestured for Geralt to join her on the side of the bed and tentatively he did.

“Good morning, Geralt.” the voice struggled, wavering as if it might disintegrate like wet rice paper. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d shake your hand but...I seem to have misplaced mine.” The carefree words bore a startling contrast to the raw, low voice that scraped and caught in his dry throat. It was an attempt, and a rather poor one at that, to mask the devastation and exhaustion that, but he managed a devilish grin nevertheless. The man’s hair had been hastily cut short, the left side of his head shorn to reveal an entanglement of stitches. Dazedly he lifted his head in the direction of the voices, his sea glass eyes still roaming blindly.

* * *

_ No. Ha. _

_ No.  _

_ The world stopped.  _

_ Jaskier?  _

_ Everything was.  _

_ Jaskier.  _

It couldn’t be but it was. 

Broken and mangled and mutilated, but there was no mistaking it, it was him.

“Jas-”

_This was wrong. This couldn’t. He was mistaken, no. There was no way that-_

_This wasn’t - no._

_No, he wasn’t supposed to be here._

_He couldn’t._

_How did-?_

_But…_

Confusion, despair, anxiety all packaged in a neat little bottle and tossed like rum on the fire. 

“What the hell are you doing here, Jaskier?” Geralt growled, nearly choking on his twitching lungs as they struggled to remember how to breathe. He was so consumed with the attempt to control the sudden flood of emotion he didn’t realize his hand gripping the man’s shoulder far too tight.

Jaskier winced, trying to pull away from Geralt’s iron grasp as best he could. His breathing was shallow and rapid as his eyes darted around. He was confused and he was scared. No, he was absolutely terrified.

“ _ Fuck _ . It’s...it’s me, Jaskier...it’s Geralt. It’s me.” Geralt’s voice was deep and urgent. Shallow rapid breaths greeted him. Triss said something but he didn’t hear her. “What the fuck are you doing here, Jaskier?”

Triss whipped around and grabbed hold of his shoulder with horror in her eyes. “Geralt!” 

“Answer the question!”

“Geralt!” She shouted again as she grabbed him by the wrist. It shook him from the instinct-driven urgency that pumped through his blood, he regained some semblance of control over himself and let go of the man taking a step backward. 

“Do you know who this is, Triss?” 

“Of course I do.” She spat back in disbelief. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“This isn’t, I don’t know who you think this is but it’s not him. This is...this man’s name is Jaskier. He’s my-” He caught himself, swallowing the lump in his throat. His mind wouldn’t stop though and barrelled on without him. “...he was. He traveled the Path with me. Jaskier was my...is...he was a bard that traveled with me.” 

They looked at the man in the bed and his face twisted under the strain as he tried desperately to call up any memory wincing as his scrunched eyes pulled on the stitches across his cheekbone. He was trembling, his lips quivering and eyes glistening with tears. Geralt once again lost the tentative grasp he had on his own emotions, something he was loath to admit he had in the first place. 

“I met you in Posada...in a shithole tavern that smelled of dust and piss and you followed me. I told you I wanted nothing to do with you and you followed me.”

Jaskier’s face fell into a perplexed grimace as he flinched curling into himself as best he could.

“I-I’m sorry...I-” He apologized dazedly. 

“No. Don’t-” Geralt’s voice was suddenly uncharacteristically quiet. He turned his face away as if he had been struck, huffing in frustration. Before Geralt’s mind could recognize the anguish that twisted the chambers of his heart for what it was, it was redirected to anger. “ _ Fuck _ .”

“I...I’m sorry…” He was crying now, his knees curling into him as he turned onto his side and Geralt thought he might break. “I...I can’t seem to recall, but maybe...maybe if…” He was beginning to spiral into a panic. “I think...I think I’m just tired. Just need some rest and I’ll…I’m sorry, I don’t know anything...I swear, I-”

He began rambling incoherently, begging as he hyperventilated. 

He tried to lift himself but didn’t have the strength, relying on instinct he reached out to steady himself and crumpled into the sheets.

_ His hand...it was gone. It…but he could feel it, it was- _

_ What had...blistering pain shot through his fingertips as the flesh split and receded from the wounds, his purple fingertips curling into the palms of his hands, he turned them over inspecting them. The fingernails, those that had been mercifully left in place after the administrations of his captors, were nearly black the skin around them blistering as they threatened to fall from his flesh like dry leaves, They were deteriorating from the exposure to the cold. He couldn’t breathe something choking him, gagging him; he reached up to grasp at his throat, to claw for air. But his right hand passed right through his throat and he couldn’t feel it on his skin, his fingers wouldn’t move. Try as he might he couldn’t get them to open. Hysteria ripped through his veins like splinters of glass as he tried to blink away the dark, something on the back of his head shoved him forward, his arms outstretched tugged back, threatening to snap the sinews that barely held him together. He clenched his jaw, fear ringing blindly through his consciousness. A strong hand clenched his jaw and pressed, popping his aching jaw open thrusting the hot flesh into his mouth and to the back of his tongue.  _

_ The cold stone grated across his chest, an overstimulating mixture of debilitating pain and near euphoric pleasure, as he felt the heat pool in his belly, he bucked his hips as his cheek scraped across the cold ground. He begged for reprieve as he crooned. Deep laughter echoed in a chest that pressed into his back. Warm, he was so warm hot breath danced across the skin of his throat and he moaned as it pulled back.  _

_ No, please...please don’t go.  _

_ Get off, gods please let go of me...don’t...I'm so cold.  _

_ “ You like that, hmm?”  _

_ Clarity, so brief and fleeting and a burst of strength just enough to lift his chest an inch or so from the ground as he reached forward to pull himself away.  _

_ Laughter hummed against his skin once more as his hair was pulled back and his head mercilessly smashed into the ground.  _

_ Again.  _

_ “Please….please...sp-spare me. H-have mercy...I don’t know anything...I’m...”  _

_ “Oh, that I could, lamb.” She stood before him, removing the velvet glove and running her warm hand over his swollen face and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Aw, don’t cry, pet. I know that you don’t.”  _

_ Again. **Harder**. _

_ He could feel it crack, feel it splinter. _

_ The hot blood burned his cold skin, god he was  _

_ just _

_ so  _

_ tired.  _

_ The pain was dizzying and fingers reached into the wound, swirling around, stinging burning. He could hear the animalistic wail that ripped through him.  _

_ The body pressed flat against his, rough hand violently stroking him as he tore him apart from the inside.  _

_ Faster and faster still.  _

  
  


_ Please, gods, no please don’t...please don’t stop. **Stop.** _

_**STOP.** _

_ A whimpering moan was all he could reply as he toppled over the edge. _

_ “Please….please...sp-spare me. H-have mercy...I don’t know anything...I’m...”  _

_ “Oh, that I could, lamb.” The warmth that wiped the tears so tenderly from his face. “Aw, don’t cry, pet. I know that you don’t.”  _

  
  


Triss held his head as still as she could, as gently as she could muster, her palms cupping the sides of his face. “Julian...Jules…”

“Hey, hey now, it’s okay. You’re fine. Everything’s alright. You’re safe here.” Her fingertips glowed and tenderly she ran them up his cheeks to his temples and he stilled. His breathing slowed as his eyes fluttered closed once more. 

She spun on her heels and fixed Geralt with a stare that could topple kingdoms. “Out. Now.”

* * *

Geralt didn’t know why he had listened when Triss had told him to stay put outside the door, but here he was as she whispered intently with the abbess and the priestess that had rushed inside the door. She thanked them and smiled genuinely at the women, bowing her head as she pulled the door most of the way closed.

“What the fuck was that? Do you have any idea what you just did?” She quipped. After a moment of silence, it became clear that it was not, in fact, a rhetorical question and he opened his mouth. She seized the opportunity and began again. “I don’t know who you thought you saw in there, Geralt but I promise you, you’re mistaken. His name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and he has been an informant and a spy in the service of the Northern kingdoms since his youth. He was recruited at Oxenfurt and has woven in and out of my life since.” Her voice was growing softer. “Our paths did not always align and before very recently we had not seen one another in years…”

“Triss, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but that isn’t your man. His name is Jaskier and he’s no spy. He’s nothing more than a debaucherous bard. He walked the Path wi-”

He could see a look of recognition on Triss’ face as some unseen piece fell into place. She laughed bitterly to herself shaking her head and once again lifting her gaze to meet his. He couldn’t quite read her expression, which looked as though it sat somewhere between disgust and anger. 

“It was  _ you _ .”

_ Huh _ ? 

He was even more lost than before. When she simply stared at him with pursed lips he huffed and threw his arms up in frustration.

“What?” He quipped. 

“It was you. Oh, gods...Geralt. How, ha...how did he  _ ever _ ...bloody hell.” She ran her hand through her hair and took a step back as if distancing herself from her utter disbelief. 

“This mission was a last desperate attempt to obtain crucial information that could truly turn the tide of the war. But no one would take it. It was too risky, the chance of success, even survival was far too low. When he turned back up in Redania, no one had seen Julian in many months, but that wasn’t altogether unusual. He would turn up when he pleased, have his pick of commissions, and when it suited him he would disappear again. His skills afforded him that luxury. No one knew where he went when he was gone, not that we didn’t ask. The story was different every time, always fantastical and utterly unbelievable. My...my favorite was that he was traveling the road with a surly mercenary, attempting to repair his wounded reputation through poetry and maybe even...” She couldn’t finish the thought, looking at Geralt with a look of unabashed disgust.

He was laughing now, genuinely laughing at the thought. 

_ No. No, that-  _

_ No. Jaskier wasn’t a spy.  _

_ He...the thought itself was ludicrous.  _

_ There was no way that he...that they- _

_ They were the same person.  _

He had never bothered to ask where Jaskier ran off to when they would part ways now and then. Though maybe...if he had been listening-

“You know, when he took the commission, I asked him why and he told me the most ridiculous tale I have ever heard.” Triss took a step closer to Geralt and he fought the urge to match the step backward, keeping her from closing the gap. “He told me a positively absurd story of a  _ dragon hunt  _ with the very same mercenary from his misadventures. Can you believe that? There was an old man, some dwarves, a knight, and some others all fighting over the opportunity to slay the dragon. Things had begun to unravel though and Julian poured out his heart, begging the man to run away with him, to leave it all behind. But instead,” She took another step closer. “Instead he warmed the bed of a sorceress and left Julian behind at camp the next morning. By the time he made it up the mountain the mercenary told him to turn around, to leave, and never come back.”

Geralt suddenly felt entirely too hot, and almost dizzy as sweat prickled his skin and his throat tightened. He fought the urge to throw up as he stepped back from Triss.

“I just assumed he was doing what he had always done, spinning a tale to entertain and to avoid having to reveal his true reasoning, guarding himself against scrutiny and prying whilst drawing people closer to him. That’s what made him so good at what he did, you see. No one ever really  _ got _ to Julian, no matter how hard they tried. Like a glamour, a closed book made to appear as if it were wide open. And that book, it never opened Geralt, not for me or anyone else, despite our best efforts. But it opened for you, willingly it seems. I hope whatever you gained that day was worth it, Geralt. I truly do.”

  
  
  



End file.
